


The Best Laid Plans

by missbecky



Category: Dragon Quest VIII
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:04:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbecky/pseuds/missbecky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events on Neos, Marcello sets a desperate plan in motion, only to be thwarted by the last person he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Laid Plans

From his hiding place high above in the rocks, Marcello looked down on the four people standing lost amid the ruins of Neos. His hands opened and closed on empty air, impotent gestures of his utter fury and frustration.

He was too far away to hear what they were saying; he could only hear their voices. The pretty redhead, Jessica, seemed distressed. The thick criminal was looking around furtively, no doubt wondering what trinkets he could scavenge from the ruins when no one was looking. Their leader, Eight, was talking to one of the few Templar guards remaining on the island.

Angelo, his hated half-brother, was staring into space.

_Dear Goddess_ , Marcello thought, _why have you forsaken me? Why have you cursed me with such burdens?_

The Goddess did not answer. Then again, he had not expected her to. It had been a long time since he had felt any kind of response from her. He had long ago decided that she had abandoned him to his fate.

Down below, Jessica finally stopped whining. Angelo looked at her, then turned away again, brooding over the destruction. Eight finished his conversation with the guard. The four of them began walking away. They were not going to stay the night in the town, Marcello saw. He sneered at them. So, they were too good for the ruins of Neos, were they?

It wasn't hard to stay out of sight among the rocks. It was more difficult to keep up with them. His leg still hurt badly, and his body ached all over. He felt bruised and battered, as though he had been beaten all over with sticks. Or just one stick - the cursed sceptre. He wished he had never laid eyes on it. Wished he had never even heard of it. If he could not have its power and everything it promised, then he did not even wish to know of its existence.

Fleetingly he wondered if the Goddess had deserted him because of his flirtation with Rhapthorne. Then he immediately put such ideas out of his thoughts.

Evening was fast approaching. His brother's party started to set up camp. The troll king fussed about the white horse pulling their wagon. The criminal - Marcello had forgotten his name - began setting rocks in a circle for a firepit. 

_Sleep well_ , Marcello thought. _It will be the longest, deepest sleep you will ever know._

****

Later, under cover of night, he crept down from the rocky hills. The moon lit his way, but the night was just cloudy enough to provide cover when he needed it. The climb down was so easy, in fact, he almost wondered if the Goddess had deigned to notice him again. Perhaps this was her way of encouraging him.

The camp was as quiet as it could ever get. The king was asleep in the wagon. Marcello dismissed him without a second thought; the little troll would be no good in a fight. If push came to shove, the king would do whatever he was told to do.

The woman named Jessica lay close to the fire. She was flat on her back, one arm flung over her head. Her hair was a tangled mess. In the dim firelight, it glowed darkly red. She really was pretty, Marcello thought as he limped past her. He couldn’t wait to see her reaction upon waking and discovering that one of her companions had left her in the middle of the night.

Beside her, the criminal snored away, completely oblivious. His mouth hung open. Marcello made a face of disgust. He knew _he_ had never looked so ridiculous while sleeping.

Eight was on Jessica's other side. He too was flat on his back. The bandana he always wore was resting on the ground beside him. The mouse he kept in his pocket was nowhere in sight. Probably out hunting, Marcello thought. He wondered if these people had even the faintest idea of how nasty and dirty rodents were. Whenever he found one in Maella Abbey, he made sure to kill it.

Last, he turned toward Angelo. His brother was curled up on his side, one arm pillowed beneath his head. Silver hair spilled over his shoulders, glinting in the moonlight. Marcello fought the urge to chop it all off. He was here for another purpose entirely.

Angelo’s weapons were close by. A slender sword in an elegant scabbard. An enormous bow, nearly as tall as Angelo himself, carved all down its length with twining runes. Marcello stared at them in envy. Slowly he pulled his own sword free from its scabbard. It had been bent during the fight, but it was still perfectly serviceable. Moonlight gleamed on the blade, winking up at him. Marcello took it for another sign of divine approval for what he was about to do.

He slid forward another step and leveled the blade at the back of Angelo's neck.

_Never again will you look at me with pity ___, Marcello thought, and wrapped both hands around the hilt of the sword. _Never again will you be so foolish as to try to save me_. He tensed, readying himself for the killing blow.

And a prick of pain touched the small of his back.

"Lower your sword," Eight said. He spoke in a whisper, but there was no denying the command in his voice.

Marcello ground his teeth in rage. For a wild moment he considered thrusting the blade forward anyway, then he thought twice. Killing Angelo would serve no purpose if he could not remain alive to enjoy it.

Nearly shaking with fury, he held the sword out, away from his body. Eight snatched it from him. "Let's go."

Helpless not to obey, Marcello let himself be marched away from the camp. No one stirred. No one even twitched. He wondered dimly if they were all acting, then decided that this was really happening. Their leader had acted while they all slept, thus earning the mantle he wore. It was almost enough to make Marcello respect him.

"How stupid do you think I am?" Eight asked, when they were well away from the camp. He spoke in a normal volume now. "I saw you hours ago, watching us."

"You're very clever," Marcello snarled. Dull rage pounded at his temples. He wanted to turn around and strangle this man with his bare hands. And meanwhile, behind him, Angelo slept the uninterrupted sleep of the guilty. It was so unfair!

"I have to be," Eight said, responding to the taunt about being clever. "They all expect me to lead them."

"Men expect many things from their leaders," Marcello said. "Not all of which they deserve." He had worked hours on his speech, delivered just this morning. It seemed like eons ago that he had stood behind the candlelit podium, the sceptre singing with power in his hands, every eye in the room riveted on him. A different man had given that speech. A different man had still held out some hope for the possibility of change in this world.

All that was gone now. The man currently holding a sword on him had ripped everything away from him. This man, and three others.

Such a pity, it was, that his own brother was among them. Once he had felt hope that he and Angelo could one day reconcile their differences. Once he had tried to make Angelo into a better man. Once he had believed that things could change.

Now he knew better.

"As it happens, I agree with you," Eight said calmly. "But if you think I was going to let you just walk into our camp and kill Angelo, you were sorely mistaken."

Marcello said nothing. He knew he was defeated, just as he had known it this morning, when they had wounded him so badly Rhapthorne was finally able to escape his control.

"Go," Eight said. "Go away. Far away. I never want to see you again. _Angelo_ never wants to see you again. For his sake, I will say nothing of this encounter. But if I ever see you again, my sword will not hesitate. Do you understand?"

Gritting his teeth, Marcello nodded. He wished he could see the look on Eight's face, but the swordpoint nestled in the small of his back prevented him from turning around.

"I'm sorry for what happened to you," Eight started to say.

"I don't want your pity!" Marcello cried. Heedless of the consequences, he whirled around. The sword followed him, so that it was now aimed at his throat. He didn't care. "You will never understand me," he snapped. "Don't pretend that you can. "

Eight looked at him for a moment, the nodded. In the moonlight, his expression was hard to read. But he seemed to be taking no pleasure from this. "Maybe you're right," he said. "I spoke out of turn." His face hardened. "But I meant what I said earlier. Go, Marcello. This is your last chance."

Marcello gathered himself, standing up straight. "You will regret this," he vowed. But just like when he had flung the words at Angelo this morning, they sounded empty and hollow, like a child swearing revenge against a mean adult.

Eight said nothing. He just stood there, holding the sword.

There was no other choice. Marcello turned and began limping away. He did not ask for his sword back. He could find another, he told himself. 

This one was bent, anyway.

*******

END

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [To the man who could not let go...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1417894) by [SwordofRebecca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwordofRebecca/pseuds/SwordofRebecca)




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